Darkin: The Prophecy of the Key (The Darkin Saga Book 2) (49 page)

“I refuse still,” responded Terion. “You were a great help in battle, but I do not see the need,” Terion boasted, gleaming with pride.

“Nor do I, but I will allow myself time for a full consideration—I ask that of you, Welsprin,” Gaiberth offered.

“You may have as much time as needed—I do not expect you to call me your queen at once; only by observing my nature can you make a decision about my ability to guide you, protect you,” she said softly.

“But you said yourself Alejia: there is no need for protection, not any time soon, it would seem,” Krem finally spoke up. Tempern eyed Krem wildly, a twinkle sparkling in his eye.

“Yes, Krem, you’re quite right; but, you’ll find in the course of history, men may make new wars amongst themselves, often for little or no reason—the final result is this: I am no longer watching idly, observing the events of the world as they unfold, expecting wrong to right itself through the balance of time. I am intervening, so that I can make a difference directly, as you saw on the battlefield three days ago. I will not state the reasons for my change of heart, they are obvious to the righteous, but I will no longer let evil go unpunished—I cannot.”

“We commend you for that,” Flaer cried, his fist raised in the air. Adacon smiled, and Calan looked on, surprised at everything that had been said, but happy enough to sense good in Alejia’s intents and purposes for Darkin.

“I would gladly allow her to watch over Carbal,” Calan whispered to Adacon. “She is pure of heart.”

“Perhaps we can go there together—this time to stay,” Adacon said, shifting slightly, ignoring the commotion of Alejia for a moment, distracted by the thought of a home with Calan.

“You mean for good—we’ll build our own home there?” she cried.

“I mean for good,” he smiled. “I don’t know of anything else I could ever want to do more than to be with you, and start a peaceful life together—I miss the jungle and the waterfalls.”

“Adacon, I l—” Calan started, but a great commotion had risen from the front of the crowd:

“But where will you be?” cried Erguile, still entranced by Alejia. She’d said she was leaving; the crowd had reacted with loud protest and confusion.

“I will be here, always—those who wish for my rule, you have it already—those who need time to decide, you have as long as you require—I will always be here,” she said. Her red gown whipped furiously; she suddenly disappeared, as strangely and quickly as she’d come. Tempern ran to where she had been and called her name, bewildered, visibly in love with her still; he shook his head as if to jog her from his mind. The crowd pushed forward, raucously loud again. Tempern approached Flaer, grabbing him on the shoulder. Flaer scowled back at him, then calmed his scornful visage, furrowing his brow in anticipation of their conversation:

“Flaer—I am sorry. Never again will I sit back and watch. I don’t care what I understand about the nature of Gaigas, I will listen to my heart from now on—I won’t let anything like this to happen to our world again.” Flaer looked as if the deepest sense of pleasure had washed over his soul; he smiled wide, looking with admiration at the man he’d resented for so many centuries.

“Have you forgiven yourself, though, Tempern—for making me what I am?” Flaer asked, stoppering true relief until he heard confirmation that Tempern’s own resentment against him was gone.

“I have, finally—and, absurd as this sounds, it took something from the boy, something he said,” Tempern said, glancing to the crowd at Adacon who kissed Calan amidst a frenzy of renewed celebration.

“Adacon?”

“Yes… you won’t believe it, what he told me.”

“Well?”

“I’ll tell you later, the mood is light. Let’s celebrate!”

Krem overheard their conversation and became stricken with a look of grief; he walked off to be alone. Remtall saw the sad expression mark the old Vapour’s face and ran up to him, spirits and pipes extended.

“Krem! Why the long face? Have a drop,” he said, holding out his flask and pipe.

“Sorry Remtall, I have an errand, may I borrow good Yarnhoot?”

“An errand now?” asked Remtall, exasperated.

“Yes, it’s urgent.”

“Well, then, of course, you can borrow Yarnhoot—he’s rather grown to like you more than me I think,” Remtall said, shoving Krem on the shoulder and pushing him out of the way.

“How about her? You think she’d go for me?” Erguile said, rushing past Krem to join Remtall in celebration.

“You mean of course the red hawk woman, that beautiful thing?” Remtall spat.

“Of course her.”

“Not a chance! Not—a—chance! She rather fancies gnomes, Adacon told me.”

“Liar,” Erguile replied, taking Remtall’s flask and drinking heartily. “Hey, what was with him?”

“Krem?”

“Yea, he looked quite distressed.”

“Maybe it’s Slowin; it comes and goes. His loss afflicts us each in different ways.”

“Did you hear? The party’s leaving tomorrow,” Erguile informed.

“To find that metal beast and bury him properly?”

“We aim to take him home—he always talked about getting back to the Red Forest, riding on turtles, sleeping in trees…I figure we’ll give him one more trip, get him home to his beloved forest. We owe him that much.
And,
I’ll be taking Weakhoof along, of course.”

“Hah! Count me in for the trip then.”

“You haven’t been home in so long though—I wouldn’t mind if you needed to stay awhile and rest your old bones.”

“Pah! Never mind a gnome’s bones! They’re girt round my frame for the sole purpose of adventure,” Remtall spoke, kicking Erguile hard on the shin in excitement for another journey. Another night of celebration carried on, and most all in Rislind were merry.

XXXIII: REPOSE

A final pink ray of sunlight poked through melting strands of cloud clumped in the western sky, and then the color of dusk dissolved. Calan watched placidly the transformation: streaking bends of orange and pink to amber, then blue and grey. Adacon held her warmly, and together they drifted peacefully down a slow river, their bodies sticking against the smooth-finished wood of an elven canoe. She dipped her finger into the water, a line forming in its wake, tiny ripples refracting the sunset’s death. The sounds of chirping bugs echoed lightly from the shores near to either side of them; the dark-forested banks looked as inviting a home as Adacon had ever known. It had been several weeks since the end of the war, and life had been good to him: he’d made a swift return west with Calan, to their new home, a freshly cut house on the edge of the largest tree in Rainside Run. He had taken to leisurely days of drifting, floating aimlessly along the river, caressing his love, and thinking no more of evil and oppression.

Erguile had set off to find Weakhoof and search for Slowin’s remains, strengthened by the company of Remtall. News had come across the Kalm that Tempern was set to found an academy where the art of Vapoury would be taught for the first time in eons—Krem had been the first hired magister, and Flaer Swordhand the second. Shortly before Adacon had set sail with King Terion and Gaiberth for Enoa, Behlas had declared his intentions to travel south again, seeking to aid the ruined communities of refugee diggers, and the other left-for-dead experiments: the Gears. Binn had agreed to join him, eager to reverse the damage Parasink had caused in his near-forgotten homeland. Adacon had said a great many tear-filled goodbyes to his friends, leaving them to rebuild in Arkenshyr and Hemlin so that he could help in Enoa. Calan and he quickly joined the restoration effort upon their return, housing countless homeless elves, still fractured and ripped from their communities by the wrath of Aulterion. Falen had declared to Adacon that he would stay in Arkenshyr, and that he rather liked the weather there—he proudly decided he would teach a class entitled
The Ethics of Good Dragons
at Tempern’s academy, if Tempern would allow it. An emergency council had been called in Erol Drunne to discuss the significance of the aliens who’d taken Slowin’s arms, causing Krem to postpone Grelion Rakewinter’s trial until further notice. As it stood when Adacon and Calan departed, Grelion was staying with Pursaiones in Rislind, working hard on the farms there, making many repairs to Crumpet’s old house. Krem told Adacon that he would begin helping with the construction of the academy just as soon as the Erol Drunne council had concluded, and Grelion’s trial had finished. After returning west, Adacon soon lost all concern about the affairs of others; life was serene in Rainside Run, more joyous than he’d ever known it to be. 

“Tempern used Vapoury to get Krem to Erol Drunne, didn’t he?” asked Calan, pondering the last few weeks’ events.

“Yea. I suppose he could have sailed with us if the council hadn’t been called the day we left from Saru Gnarl,” Adacon replied drowsily, tracing his finger along Calan’s arm. Moons glowed above, and slowly, one by one, a spider-web of stars emerged; from the squandered luster of dusk they witnessed the shining heavens release their load overhead.

“Couldn’t you have done that then?” she prodded, poking him playfully.

“Hey, watch it!” he replied, trying his best to act mad. “I can’t do that, I can’t
teleport
anything.”

“Is that what it’s called? Teleporting?” she asked curiously.

“I guess so…he called it something like that. What?” Adacon said, seeing Calan glare at him: “What?”

“You are my very own Welsprin, you know that?”

“And you are beautiful,
you know that
?” he replied with a chuckle. “I think I won’t need my power anymore—it’s as if it never happened.”

“You don’t mean that,” she reproached. “You should be very proud of it.”

“I am—I’m using it to help rebuild here, aren’t I?”

“You are—it’s just—well, you should continue to learn, to grow, I’ve been thinking…” Calan said, trailing off.

“You’ve been thinking what?”

“I think you should accept Tempern’s offer,” she said softly.

“How did you know he asked me!” Adacon beamed at her, the stars twinkling brightly on their faces.

“Well—as Remtall might remind you—never mind the spies of an elf!” she laughed.

“Well said then—but I don’t know…I don’t think I want to, I’d rather stay here. I want to work on our home together,” he said, moving close to her face. “I love it here.” Calan looked back at him; she thought of how she’d almost told him she loved him after the battle, but the crowd had been thrown into a riot at Alejia’s disappearance.

“I understand, I am behind whatever your decision is. I just want you to know that if you choose to go, to work at the academy, I would go with you.”

“And leave Iirevale? The rest of your family?”

“But I wouldn’t be leaving all of my family…” she said, falling silent; her silence implied more to him than anything she had yet said. The moon passed through a veil of clouds, brightening her delicate face; Adacon pressed his lips to hers, holding her hard, feeding deep upon her moonlit eyes, glittering with welled tears.

“Calan…”

She didn’t move, but a tear rolled down her cheek, and she reached forth, in her hand a small pink flower.

“Never again…” she said, withdrawing the flower before he could take it back. “It stays with me—always.”

“I love you,” he said softly, more sure of his words than any he’d uttered before.

“I love you too,” she replied brusquely, pulling him in urgently, returning his kiss by slow degrees. The canoe wended its own course down the river, adrift, and two silhouettes flexed savagely under starlight, their nameless sounds mixing with the echoes of wild beasts hunting on the shore, searching for prey.

*            *             *

“Lad,” called a voice from a dream. “Laddy!” it came again. Adacon slowly peeled back his eyelids, wondering what he’d been dreaming, finding himself still underneath stars and upon the river.

“Are you alright?” moaned Calan, unenthused at being roused from her deep slumber on the cool river.

“Fine, just a dream is all. I’m going to take us ashore,” he said, releasing her arm from where it clung to his chest, finding room to sit upright. Calan smiled, kissed him softly on his side, then fell quickly back asleep. Adacon looked up, again trying to recollect his dream—all he could remember was the voice, asking for him, it had sounded like…

Something caught his eye, to his left along the forested bank. Though it was terribly dark, he was sure he’d seen movement: some kind of figure glided along the shore line, following their boat, tracing it at its leisurely pace, parallel to them through thick brush.

Something’s watching us—something has
been
watching us, he realized.

He grew suddenly alert, and in great detail his memory fashioned the night he’d spent on watch with Erguile in the Solun Desert, when they’d been stalked by Zesm. Again something moved; this time Adacon had been looking directly at it, at the black bank of the river: against the lighter scraps of forest, jutting out from the dark abyss of the tree trunks, a silhouette had revealed itself, trotting along quietly, not snapping a single twig, staring wildly at the canoe. As quietly as possible, Adacon moved away from Calan so that her body lay limp against the boat; she didn’t murmur. I have to see what this is, he thought—he realized no fear came into his heart, for he had gained too much power; only the aliens had been able to subdue him, no one else on Darkin. He rose above the moon-reflecting river and flew slowly to the edge of the river bank, leaving Calan alone on the boat, glancing back every few seconds.

“Who’s there?” Adacon whispered into the brush, not wanting to wake Calan. “Hello? I know you’re there, you’ve been following us.”

“Shhh,” came a thin voice. Adacon saw the silhouette streak past a bush and out into moonlight; he jumped at his chance: the small figure tumbled hard to the earth from Adacon’s blow, grunting at the hard collision.

“Krem?” Adacon asked, bewildered—staring up at him, green hat thrown off by the tackle, was the bearded old hermit; his cloak’s emeralds reflected softly in the gloom.

“Quiet, quiet—I trust her, but still, I think it’s best she isn’t told yet,” Krem struggled to get himself up.